


Ordinary and Unusual Before the Craziness at Pine Lake

by marianrose



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:57:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7649044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marianrose/pseuds/marianrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch describes the peaceful evening they had at Pine Lake before they discovered the satanic cult.</p>
<p>This was written for the lovely and talented Sam KW (samudee) for her Satan's Witches picspam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordinary and Unusual Before the Craziness at Pine Lake

Starsky ate the “bear meat, acorns and dried roots” I cooked. After a couple of bites, he said it reminded him of his Aunt Rosie’s chili, which only made sense if you knew the way that woman cooked. My concoction contained no chilies or beans. Hers probably didn’t either. She called almost everything she made in a skillet, “chili”. So, it was fitting that we raised our bottles and drank a toast to Aunt Rosie that first night at Pine Lake.

While I washed the dishes, Starsky entertained me with an analysis of American League pitchers interspersed with complaints about Dobey’s cabin and musings about the time his brother’s head got stuck in a lawn chair. After the clean up, we played rummy at the kitchen table but we we were both yawning by then, so we ended the game after one hand. 

Starsky snagged the couch and the National Geographic. He stretched out with his feet at one end and his head propped up against his pillow at the other. I moved the upholstered chair so I could put my feet up on the little wooden coffee table while I slouched in it and read the Clive Cussler novel Starsky had given me. I was quickly lost in the intrigue of Soviet spies and the suspense of raising the old shipwreck. Time passed, Starsky behind his magazine and me behind my book. 

We hadn’t been aware of each other the moment before, but, by chance, we glanced up from our reading at the same time, our eyes meeting instantly. I waited for him to speak, to define the purpose of the moment as he always did in such cases with a quip, comment or question. He would speak and I would know the correct response. But this time, he remained still, saying nothing, just looking at me.

It occurred to me, as the quiet wore on, that he didn’t speak because the moment was already defined. It was simply my breath and his breath filling the otherwise silent space. Nothing more was required or desired. I could see that in his eyes, his own contentment and mine reflected there too. How unusual for us to be sufficiently still to know that sensation. 

His lip curled up on one side, as soon as I understood this. I smiled in response, congratulating myself for arranging our vacation to a place we could truly slow down, unwind and be at peace. We returned to our reading but this time, we remained aware of each other, soulful companions enjoying the tranquil night. Occasionally, I would surreptitiously glance across. Mainly, I listened for the breaths, astonished that they could be heard, until I went to bed and sleep came. 

I awoke early the next morning, anxious for our day to begin. Starsky still slept, a mound on the couch. Before I left the bed, I listened for his breath and tried to notice my own, recalling the night before; but other sounds of the day competed noisily. The insects and frogs were waking too. The birds sang sweetly so I joined along with my own song, hoping it would rouse Starsky and he would go fishing with me. I readied myself and considered waiting for him. However, it was not in my nature to wait when a new day was so tempting. 

I could have gone out to the lake unnoticed and left him to rest. Instead, I sang louder and clamored with my gear unapologetically. I didn’t need his help with fishing but he needed to know that Bigfoot hadn’t dragged me off in the night.

Finally, he stirred and spoke, muffled by the blanket over his head. In a grumbly tone, he complained of the early hour and wished me “happy hunting”. His mumbled dismissal made my way clear and my response tipped him off the couch. He threw his boot. It would have hit me but I was quick, much too fast out the door.


End file.
